


Stereo Love

by SinnamonSpider



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Driving, Established Relationship, Fluff, Impala, M/M, Mary Finds Out, One Shot Collection, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Schmoop, Sibling Incest, Song Lyrics, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-09-24 08:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9713834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: A collection of drabbles and short fics all inspired by (a very random and odd assortment of) song lyrics. All Wincest, all the time.





	1. Drive

**Author's Note:**

> I have all these half-started fics inspired by song lyrics that get in my head and won't be put off until I get something started. So this collection will be a home for all those little song-drabbles. 
> 
> Lyrics are from "Body Like A Back Road" by Sam Hunt. 
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply.

Drive

 

_Body like a back road,_

_Driving with my eyes closed,_

_I know every curve like the back of my hand..._

  

Sam doesn't really care for driving.

Dean's the one with the love for the open road, eating up the miles. The Impala is his church, driving is his worship. His hands on the wheel may as well be raised in prayer.

Not that Sam doesn't love the car too. It's home, the only constant thing in his tumultuous life, maybe even moreso than Dean himself. He knows the rumble of the engine from a mile away. The creak of the doors opening and closing is the background music to his life. He does love her, maybe even moreso because Dean loves her.  

When he does drive, Sam isn't that fond of the freeway. Too straight, too boring. Too easy to lose focus, cause everything looks the same, fields and forests and plains. His shoulders get tight, his back hurts after just a few hours.  

He likes the winding roads that take them in and out of the little towns they stop at, roads that twist and dip and take a few more minutes than a straight line would. He's in his element on these backroads, hands loose and easy on the wheel. This is when he lets his body relax, stretches a long arm along the back of the seat and brushes his fingers in the short hair at the nape of Dean's neck. This is when they're both languid and loose and Dean will let his head fall back into Sam's caress, let his eyes slip shut.  

They drive until they have to stop, in whatever motel each little town has to offer. They leave the car with fond pats to her bodywork and tumble into bed. Dean's body is like the backroads and Sam runs his hands along it the same way he eases the car  along the asphalt. The smooth plain of Dean's shoulders, the dip down into his lower back, the rise of his rounded ass, the sleek length of his thighs. Sam takes his time, as though there was a yellow and black sign saying "CURVES AHEAD". Dean is boneless on the bed, body warm like the road warmed under the sun all day, and Sam can cruise for hours around his twists and turns.  

Sam doesn't know that Dean loves his body for the same reasons he loves the freeway: clean, long, lines, straight and firm and seemingly never-ending, miles of space he can claim all his own and explore forever. He can turn his brain off for a bit and lose himself in the simplicity of Sam's impossibly long legs and lazy smile.  

So they trade off every so often, Dean navigating the endless open highways and Sam the bends of the backroads, and the Impala purrs all around them no matter the streets and together they can go anywhere they want.


	2. Cold Feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can blame my Spotify Valentine's Day playlist for a lot of these. 
> 
> Lyrics from "Marry Me" by Train.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply.

Cold Feet

 

_You'll wear white and I'll wear out the words "I love you",  
_ _And "You're beautiful"..._

 

Dean tugs at the collar of his black shirt and Jody slaps his hands away. "Leave it, or I'll cuff you," she says. No idle threat. Dean settles for grimacing at his reflection. He raises a hair to muss with his hair again, but catches Jody's eye in the mirror and drops it. "What time is it?"

"You've got twenty minutes," Jody replies. Dean huffs out a breath and begins to pace the length of the hotel bedroom. It makes for short laps. He stops by the bed and looks up at Jody, green eyes huge and popping just a bit. "Is this stupid? I feel kinda stupid. Or like I might throw up." He reaches for his collar again, but Jody catches his hands. "Will you relax?" she says, all affectionate exasperation. "It's not stupid, you're not stupid - at least most of the time." She adjusts the collar for him, smoothing his lapels. "And don't throw up. You'd have to change."

"I'm pretty good at throwing up. Lots of practice."

She smiles. "Better not. Just in case."

Dean picks up his interrupted pace. When he pauses again and opens his mouth, Jody cuts him off. "Fifteen minutes, and I will shoot you soon. You're wearing a watch, anyways." Dean's fidgety hand goes to his watch, playing with the strap, and Jody gives up. "I've never seen you like this," she comments. Dean glares at her. "I've never done anything like this before."

She stifles a snicker, opting for serious. "Dean, you've literally stopped the Apocalypse. A few times. You've stared the Devil and the King of Hell and God himself in the face. This is...normal. Something people do literally every day." Dean snorts. "That stuff was easy. This is..." He trails off and swallows hard, throat working, and Jody wonders if he might actually throw up.

"You'll be fine," she assures him.

He gives her a tight grin and resumes pacing. The next ten minutes slink by and there's a knock on the door. Donna sticks her head in and Dean's head jerks up, what little colour he had draining away. "Hiya guys," Donna says, beaming. "We all ready to go here?"

Jody nods and picks up her shawl, heading toward the door. She stops and looks back. Dean is frozen by the bed. "Dean, I know you can walk, I've been watching you do it all around this damn room all afternoon. C'mon."

He gives her a look of sheer terror, but he manages one foot at a time and they clear the room.

* * *

 

They've picked a spot right on the beach, near a cluster of palms. The setting sun is glaring off the water, turning the sky pink and golden and drenching them in light. Dean is watching his feet wiggle in the sand. They're all gathered around: Jody, Donna, Alex and Claire. Kevin and Bobby are shimmering weirdly in the light, but they're here and and that's what matters, after all the trouble it took to get them there. Cas and Mary round out the crowd. Dean feels like it's not enough, but they only have so many people, after all they've been through, and he can't think of anyone else he'd want there.

Jody nudges Dean, who looks up from his toes. Sam is crossing the sand towards them. He's wearing a loose white shirt, sleeves rolled up and collar open, and light khakis. His feet, like Dean's, are bare. He draws up alongside the little group, grinning down at Dean, who looks poleaxed.

"Ready?"

Dean nods dumbly and wonders if he'd totally ruin everything if he actually did throw up, but Sam just takes his hands because he's a big lame girl and Cas grins at them both and begins.

* * *

 

Dean still thinks it's kinda stupid. It's just them and their tiny, oddly assembled family. It's on a beach, which is cheesy and lame and they literally never go to the beach. It's not official either, no paperwork or anything. Won't change anything in the eyes of anyone who isn't with them now.

But they already share a last name, which makes it feel more real, and the words were said by an Angel of the Lord, which makes it about as legitimate as you can get, and Sam is smiling at him like an idiot, which makes him feel like his heart might burst. And when all is said and done, it might be nothing more than circlets of metal on their ring fingers, gold on Sam's warm-toned skin and silver on his own cool-toned, but it feels like everything.

It means everything to him.


	3. In A Boy's Dream I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part one of two pieces which are meant to bookend the flashback scene in my fic "By Any Other Name", but can be read by themselves.
> 
> Lyrics from "Crash Into Me" by Dave Matthews Band.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply.

In A Boy's Dream I

_Sweet like candy to my soul_  
_Sweet you rock and_  
_Sweet you roll_  
_Lost for you  
I’m so lost for you_

All Sam wants is one last perfect summer.

He’s headed for Stanford in the fall. His acceptance letter, welcome package, and everything else is at Bobby’s, the old man sworn to secrecy. His bus ticket is folded into a tiny square stuffed deep in his wallet, on him at all times.

All that’s left to do is break the news to Dad.

And to Dean.

There is nothing on earth he’d rather do less than tell his father and brother that he’s leaving. He knows it will end up being a showdown with Dad. They’re both too hot-headed to let it be anything less. If it comes to blows, Dean will get in between them. But it’s gonna be ugly no matter what.

Sam tries not to think too much about it.

Instead, he gives himself up to Dean, completely and totally. They’re thankfully staying put in Alton, Iowa; Dad’s begrudging graduation gift to Sam is two solid months in the tiny town. He’d have been less inclined if he knew the real motivation behind it.

But this is all for Dean. Anything he wants to do: lame horror movies at the theatre in the next town over, ‘cause Alton is too small for one, target practice at the gun range that Alton is just the right size for, lazy afternoons at the local swimming hole, pick-up baseball games on the dusty backlot, Saturday night parties with the high school crowd that Dean is a little too old for but likes anyways.

These are all things that they’ve both craved for their whole lives and Sam thinks it’s not so much the activities themselves as the simple normality of them all. This is what they should be doing, at their ages. And even if it’s only for two months before they pick up and move on - or so Dean assumes - they can be normal for those two months. Dean will deny it if asked outright, but Sam knows he feels at home here, can let his bravado drop a little, let the weight of the world slip from his shoulders for a bit, and just be a regular twenty-two year old guy.

And when they’re out of fun and trouble to get into, they drag the sleeping bags out of the Impala and lie beneath the stars and hold each other, kiss until they can’t breathe, learn everything there is to know about each other’s bodies. Dean finally drops that last barrier and makes love, fully and completely, to Sam and he’ll never admit it but Sam saw the tears, grateful and adoring and unbelieving tears, that slipped from beneath his closed lids as their bodies became one, and Sam held him tight as they came down together. He is Dean’s now, in every way that ever mattered, and Dean is his, and Sam doesn’t know it now, but the memories of those nights will keep him going through the lonely emptiness of the years to come.

The days slip by unheeded, a slow, languid slide of mornings waking up sticky and sated and glowing with love and evenings sprinkled with fireflies and the sweetest kisses. But time is ticking on and when August arrives, Sam can’t stop the feeling in the pit of his stomach. It’s taking a toll on him, but he won’t show it.

The last days are a haze to Sam forever. All he recalls is walking home from the corner store with Dean, who’s got a Red Vine dangling from his kiss-swollen lips and the open package in his back pocket. Sam steals a piece of licorice, getting far more handsy with Dean’s ass than necessary. Dean grins around the candy, pulls another one from the package and whips Sam’s arm lightly. Sam smiles and frowns and looks down at his hands, twisting the licorice between his fingers.

“Dean, I gotta tell you something.”

The weight of the words carries to Dean’s ear and the grin slides a bit on his face before he hitches it up again. “Yeah? What?”

“I...I’m leaving. I’m going to college.” Now that the words are free, the iron bar across Sam’s tongue is lifted and he can’t stop talking. “In - in California. Stanford. I got a scholarship, Dean, full ride. I’m pre-law. I’m going...I’m going to college. I’m going.”

The Red Vine slips from Dean’s slack lips, falls into the dirt.  

* * *

 

Dean slams the door open, rattling it on the hinges and Dad looks up in alarm from the baseball game on the television, reaching instinctively for his gun. Dean brushes past him down the hall and echoes the slam with the door to the room he shares with Sam.

Dad turns a suspicious eye on his younger son. “You got an explanation for that, Sam?”

Sam closes his eyes, not ready for this fight despite having rehearsed it a million times since the first letter from Stanford arrived.

It all goes the way Sam knew it would: the yelling, the accusations, the threats. The first sound that isn’t shouting - the crash of Dad’s beer bottle against the kitchen wall - brings Dean barreling out of the room and he arrives just in time to step between them and block the first swing - Sam at his father, surprising all three of them.

The night goes downhill from there.

And after everything, after all his efforts, the strongest memory Sam has of that last summer is the _hurtpainbetrayal_ in Dean’s bottle-green eyes.


	4. In A Boy's Dream II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part two of two pieces which are meant to bookend the flashback scene in my fic "By Any Other Name", but can be read by themselves.
> 
> Lyrics from "Crash Into Me" by Dave Matthews Band.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply.

In A Boy's Dream II

 

 _Tied up and twisted_  
_The way I like to be_  
_For you, for me  
Come crash into me, baby_

 

Dean sits in the Impala until the sun rises fully, turning the windshield to molten gold. His swollen eyes flinch at the light. He rummages in the glove compartment for a tissue, comes up with a crumpled McDonald’s napkin, and blows his nose into the rough paper.

The bus depot is coming to life. Dean watches a couple saying goodbye, the woman clutching the lapels of the man’s jacket, stretching up to kiss him once more. Dean’s chest tightens and his fingers curl around the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. The Impala’s tires screech as the car peels out of the parking lot.

The liquor store doesn’t open until ten, so Dean sits in the diner next door for two hours. He orders pancakes, but takes three bites and feels the bile rise in his stomach, so he pushes them away and sticks to black coffee.

He’s the first one through the doors of the liquor store when they’re unlocked. He grabs two bottles of Jack and a bottle of cheap tequila and heads to the checkout. In his distraction, he hands the woman one of his fake IDs, still unaccustomed to being of legal age and able to use his actual license. But it doesn’t matter, as she barely glances at it anyways, and Dean is soon on his way.

He pulls into the driveway of their rented house and cuts the engine, but doesn’t get out of the car. Going in there will mean facing the detritus of the fight; shards of Dad’s beer bottle on the kitchen floor, the wreckage of the table lamp that Dean had knocked over as he took a right hook from his father that was meant for his brother. The fragments of their family, weird and twisted and fucked-up as it had been, scattered around the crummy little house that Sam had begged Dad to keep for the two months after graduation, so he could have one last summer with Dean.

The thought of Sam, of the last few glorious, beautiful weeks they’d shared makes Dean’s eyes sting and his heart clench. He clutches the bottles in his arms like rescued kittens, climbing out of the car and up the crumbling front step. The house is silent, a battlefield after the smoke has cleared. The door to Dad’s room is closed. The door to the room he shared with Sam is open wide, the doorknob wedged in the drywall. He’d flung it open with too much force when he’d heard the crash of the beer bottle. Dad’s not going to be getting his security deposit back on this one.

Dean sets the bottles down on the kitchen table, side-stepping the broken glass. Let Dad clean it up, Dean’s tired of sweeping up his father’s messes. He gets a glass from the cupboard, cracks open one of the bottles of Jack, sloshes some into the glass, and knocks the whole thing back. Rinse and repeat, until the bottle is half empty and his head is swimming and the feelings must be too, ‘cause they aren’t doing the drowning he’d hoped for.

Dad’s door opens just after noon, and he stumbles out, eyes red. They take in the chaos of the house and Dean at the table, spinning his pocketknife on the tabletop. Dad picks up Dean’s glass, eyes the dregs of whisky, tips the last drops into the glass. Dean snorts, spinning the knife again. “Haven’t you had enough?” he asks, voice strained and hoarse from the burn of the alcohol and the rasp of the tears he refuses to let spill over. Dad raises the glass to him sarcastically, drains it and slams it back onto the table. “Could ask you the same question,” he growls.

Dean lets his head fall backwards, puts his hands over his face. “Fuck off, Dad,” he grits out, muffled through his fingers. Not muffled enough, though. He can feel his father looming over him, but he can’t seem to bring himself to care. “What was that?” Dad demands, or maybe Corporal Winchester demands. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Dean’s had it.

He comes up out of his chair so suddenly that Dad takes a step backwards and if Dean was a little more sober, he would have grinned at that. But he’s too drunk and torn up and if Dad doesn’t back off, Dean is afraid he might step over a line he’s never even come close to before. “I said fuck off, Dad,” he repeats softly, keeping his distance but staring his father down. “I’m not in the mood to deal with you right now.”

Dad snorts. “You’re not in the mood. You boys seem to have an awful lot of moods. Sam - ”

“Don’t you say his name!” Dean brings his fist down on the table instead of crashing into his father’s jaw and the bottles rattle and the empty glass jumps. “Don’t say anything about him! You drove him out of here, out of our lives, and now he’s gone! Do you understand that, Dad? Sam is _gone_. Sam is - ” and he chokes on the words, can’t bear to repeat them, his voice breaking as the tears disobey him and come sliding down his cheeks. He falls back into the chair, all his anger evaporated.

Dad steps toward him with purpose and Dean doesn’t move, has nothing left to give. He feels the hand on his shoulder hauling him upwards and he goes with it, closing his eyes, not even steeling himself for the blow. He is not expecting strong arms to come around him, pull him close, like he was ten and not twenty-two, and the pain and sorrow that radiate through his father’s body, wrapped around him, match the agony thrumming through his own body. Dean lets his head fall onto his father’s shoulder and Sam’s face swims in his mind’s eye, as ever.


	5. Salvation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set at an unspecified time early in Season 12, before episode 12x03 and Mary's departure. 
> 
> Chapter title and lyrics from "Angels" by Robbie Williams.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply.

Salvation

_And through it all_  
_She offers me protection_  
_A lotta love and affection  
Whether I’m right or wrong_

 

They have to tell her.

She’d find out eventually, all of them together in the Bunker, close quarters. She’d hear something, see something, put the pieces together. Cas might say something, he isn't the most subtle of angels and that's saying something. It has to be done. And soon.

It's taken a while to convince Dean, but eventually Sam has gotten through, like he always does. And so they're all standing just inside the library, having found their mother examining the scimitar that Dean had played with, so long ago. Sam clears his throat. Dean is visibly shaking beside him and before Mary can question them, her expression concerned, Sam gets right into it.

“Mom, Dean and I...we’ve - we’re together. We have been. For - for years.” Once he starts talking, he finds that he can’t stop. “We didn’t plan it, we just...everything was easier if we could face it with each other. We got too - too tangled up in it. It’s no one’s fault - not yours, not Dad’s. We just fit better...better together. So we - we are. Together.”

Mary tilts her head. “I know, Sam.”

“No, Mom, I mean... _together_.” Sam makes a vague hand gesture, not even sure what he’s trying to convey.

His mother’s green eyes are Dean’s eyes. Sam notices for the first time, thrilling to it. They crinkle the same way his do as she smiles, extends a hand, strokes back Sam’s hair. “Sweetheart. _I know._ ”

Dean makes a strangled noise, shaking hands coming up to cover his face. Sam just gawks at Mary. “You...you know?”

“You’re not exactly subtle,” she says gently and Dean makes another noise from behind his hands. Mary smiles. “Okay, maybe you are, to other people. I know I don’t really know you, not anymore. But I _am_ your mother. And a woman. It’s very easy to see two people in love.”

Dean drops his hands and Sam bites his lip. “And you’re...okay with it?” He hesitates, scared of the answer, scared that despite her smile, they’re going to lose her right after finding her.

The smile slips on her face and Sam feels his stomach twist.

“I can’t pretend it’s what I would have chosen for you, for either of you. But…” she trails off, looks away and Dean tenses beside him. When she looks back at them, her eyes are shining with tears. “How can I judge? I wasn’t here. I can only imagine how awful it was for you both.” She reaches up, cups Dean’s cheek with her hand and he turns at once into her touch, eyes falling shut, a hundred different emotions crossing his face in a matter of seconds. He looks like a child, like the sweet baby boy he must have been, once, and Sam aches to see it. “All I could ever want is for you to be happy. Be loved. And I know that you are. Both of you.” She shakes Dean a little and he opens his eyes, looks down at her. “Who better to love you then each other?”

“ _Mom_ ,” Dean breathes and his knees give way and Sam is there like he always is, catching him, holding him close. Mary lets Sam support him, because he knows how and he’s been doing it for years. She keeps her hand on Dean’s face, catches the lone tear that slips down his cheek on her fingers, smooths it away.

“Mom,” Sam tries too, but his voice breaks and it’s all he can do to keep himself and Dean on their feet. Mary wraps her arms around them both, never mind the fact that they tower over her and are practically the same age as her and every other fucked-up fact about this whole situation. She’s their mother and they’re her sons and Sam has no memory of being held like this by anyone other than Dean. He lets his head fall onto Dean’s shoulder and feels him quivering.

“My boys. My sweet boys. I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry you had no one to turn to but each other.” Mary tightens her arms. “But I’m not sorry that this is how it ended up.”

No one’s knees seem to be working properly and so they sink to the cold marble floor like a balloon losing helium, and Mary cradles her sons as they hold each other and just for one brief, fleeting moment, all is right with the world.


	6. Always Wanting More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and lyrics from "Black Velvet" by Alannah Myles.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply.

Always Wanting More

 _Black velvet and that little boy smile  
_ _Black velvet in that slow Southern style_

  


They’re in Georgia the first time Dean kisses Sam.

It’s August, a hundred degrees in the shade. There was one popsicle left. It was destined to become a bloodbath.

Dean won, fair and square. It was hardly even a contest, really. At fourteen, skinny and still waiting for his growth spurt, Sam just doesn’t have the reach or the muscle or anything, really. But he’s sneaky and determined: a deadly combination.

Dean rips the paper off his hard-won treat - he hates grape, they both do, that’s why it’s the last one - and wraps his lips around it, moaning theatrically. Sam doesn’t fully grasp the ping that shoots from his eyes to his brain to his crotch, so he ignores it, waiting for his opportunity.

Dean’s eyes slip closed as he runs his tongue along the icy length of the popsicle and Sam strikes. He tackles Dean, hits him just right. Caught unaware, Dean goes sprawling in the dirt. The popsicle flies out of his hand and lands on the grass.

“Sam, what the fuck?!” Dean hollers, as Sam lands heavily on top of him, deceptively solid for such a twiggy nerd. They scrabble on the ground as the popsicle melts, rolling through the sticky puddles. They end up with Dean astride Sam’s body, sweat dripping, chests heaving.

Dean scowls down at Sam, who has a swath of dirt glued to his cheekbone with sticky purple popsicle juice. He ducks his head, drags Sam up by the stretched-out neck of his sweaty t-shirt, seals his lips to his brother’s. There’s a heartstopping minute, Dean’s tongue brushing Sam’s firmly. Then Dean breaks away, climbs to his feet. “There, now that’s all either of us get, bitch.” He saunters back into the sauna of a rental house, leaving Sam gasping on the ground.

For years, Sam pops wood every time he eats a popsicle, and he spends his first year at Stanford with a serious grape soda addiction.

* * *

They’re in Alabama the first time Dean sucks Sam’s dick.

It’s August, the nights barely cooler than the days. Sam is a furnace all the time, no matter where in the country they are, so he spends pretty much every night tossing and turning, sweating through the sheets. Dean is always able to sleep regardless the weather, but finds he cannot sleep through Sam’s gymnastic routines. Dean’s usual fix - a fast and dirty handjob that is _supposed_ to leave Sam limp and heavy-eyed - hasn’t worked tonight and his fifteen year old’s impossibly fast recovery time has long passed. Time to up the ante.

He climbs from his bed, kneels beside Sam’s. Sam turns his sweaty head in the dark. “Go ‘way, Dean,” he says sourly. Dean ignores him, capturing Sam’s salty lips with his own. “Shut up, Sam,” he hisses into Sam’s mouth. He pulls away, eases Sam’s boxers down. Sam is too hot to fight him.

He’s expecting Dean’s hand on his dick, hard and almost punishing, slicking along his skin. He’s completely unprepared for the moist heat of Dean’s mouth and the cry that leaves his lips is too loud. Dean’s hand shoots up to cover Sam’s lips, his eyes flicking upwards warningly as his tongue continues its gyrations.

Sam’s hands are fisted in the damp sheets, his hips thrusting upwards. Dean’s mouth is a godsend, all hot dirty slick _incredible_. One time, Sam had heard a drunk trucker tell Dean he had cocksucking lips. Sam, at the time, had wondered what he’d meant.

Dean had just grinned and proceeded to break the trucker’s nose. Unfair, Sam thinks now, as the man was dead right.

In a matter of minutes, Sam is panting past Dean’s fingers and flooding Dean’s mouth with hot come. Dean swallows around him, wringing one last gasp from his little brother, and pulls off with a wet pop. He stretches up to kiss Sam one last time, letting Sam taste himself on Dean’s tongue.

“Go to sleep, Sam.”

He slinks back to his own bed, but Sam is asleep before Dean leaves his side.

* * *

They’re in Mississippi the first time Dean fucks Sam.

It’s August, the air like molasses around them. It’s too hot to do _anything_.

So of course, Dad has them shooting targets in the empty field behind their ramshackle rental.

Sam is sixteen, all sharp angles - knees, elbows, tongue. He can’t keep a civil tongue in his head with Dad around. Dean is getting concerned. He eyes the gun in Sam’s hand with trepidation. Not that he thinks Sam would ever actually shoot Dad. He just doesn’t like temptation so close at hand.

Funny, considering the other temptation he’s been wrestling with.  

He’s been avoiding this. Until now, he could write off everything they’ve done as just kid stuff, just messing around. But just as it’s getting harder and harder to resist taking that final step, it’s getting harder and harder to pretend that it’s all innocent, born out of the heat and the boredom and the close quarters. If they cross that final line, Dean knows that whatever this is will morph into something much more concrete; something that may bury them forever.

When Dad abandons the target practice, taking pity on them and sending them into the relative coolness of the house while he heads off to the air-conditioned bar in town, Dean makes up his mind.

He leads Sam into their bedroom, throws him down onto the bed, kisses him into insensibility. Sam knows what’s coming, knows that Dean has been struggling, trying to decide what to do. He’s kept quiet about it. Dean knows what Sam wants. Sam just had to wait for Dean to realize that he wanted it too.

Mission accomplished.

They’re dripping sweat before they even start, skin slick and gliding together. Dean takes his time, it’s too hot for anything fast and besides, Sam deserves more. He works his little brother open, one finger, two, three inside molten, silken heat and Sam is nearly weeping in desperation by the time Dean slides home.

He starts a slow, dreamy rhythm and they’re both so worked up that it only lasts a few minutes. As he spills into his brother, Sam shooting hot over his own stomach, dick untouched, Dean remembers something about too much physical exertion in extreme heat. He figures they’re young and healthy, so he’s not too worried.

It’s too fucking hot to snuggle but they do anyways.

* * *

 

They’re in a diner in Colorado, having just put down a werewolf. Dean’s licking his fingers, having just put down a bacon double-cheese. They settle up; Dean crumples up the receipt with the waitress’s number and red lip print and tosses it in the trash, and they slide into the Impala.

“Where to, Sammy?” Dean quizzes him, fingers curling eagerly around the steering wheel. “We got a possible haunting in Wisconsin and what sounds like vamps in Memphis. Whatta we feel like?”

It’s August, a hundred degrees in the shade, the nights barely cooler than the days, too hot to do _anything_. Tennessee sounds just right.

“Memphis.” He glances over at Dean, who gives a wicked smile in return.

They get onto the highway, heading south.


	7. Pull Down The Shade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually work the lyrics into the actual fic, but I got a kick out of imagining Dean singing with his usual...enthusiasm.
> 
> Chapter titles and lyrics from "Crazy" by Aerosmith.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply.

Pull Down The Shade 

 

When Sam wakes up, the sunlight is streaming in through the window and Dean is singing Aerosmith in the bathroom.

He’s fine until he gets vertical and then Sam’s gasping in pain. He feels like he’s gone three rounds with a vamp/werewolf tag team or something. Always a possibility, with them, but Sam knows for a fact that they’d gone out to the bar and the stumbled home and then…

Oh.

Right.

Sam stumbles into the bathroom, each step agony. Dean is shaving and singing, an impressive feat. He takes no notice of Sam, who peers at himself in the mirror.

He’s a _wreck_ . Bruises, hickeys, bite marks, fucking _welts_. Dean’s a godamned animal.

He twists his shoulders, trying to see his back, and catches Dean’s eye in the mirror. Dean arches that incredibly expressive eyebrow and keeps singing. _“That kinda lovin’ sends a man right to his grave…”_

No kidding.

Dean elbows him out of the way. “Crazy” takes a pause as he rinses the remaining shaving cream from his skin. Sam is running his fingers over a purple mark just below his collarbone.

Radio Dean comes back on as he emerges from the towel. _“That kinda lovin’, now I’m never never never never gonna be the same.”_

Yeah, some of these marks might scar.

Dean saunters out of the bathroom, throwing a look back over his shoulder. Sam pokes at one more set of teeth marks half-heartedly, then shrugs at himself in the mirror.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“ _Yeah, you drive me cra_ \- ACK!” The extensive murder of Aerosmith is decisively ended as Sam tackles his brother onto the bed and digs his teeth in.

  
  



	8. Sticky Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's a fucking tease and a good one, but Dean knows from experience that once he gets his hands on his little brother, Sam falls all to pieces in seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: UNDERAGE. Sam is thirteen here. There's nothing explicit beyond kissing, but consider yourself warned.
> 
> I should really be working on the SPNCanonBigBang, buuuut here we are. Sticky sweet Weecest wouldn't leave me alone.
> 
> Lyrics from "Mouth" by Merril Bainbridge.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply.

Sticky Sweet

 

_Would it be my fault if I could turn you on_   
_Would I be so bad if I could turn you on_   
_When I kiss your mouth I wanna taste it_   
_Turn you upside down, don’t wanna waste it_

 

It’s hot as hell.

West Texas in July. Dean could kill Dad for sticking them here for 3 weeks, in a shitty rental with no air conditioning. Not only is it impossible to sleep or breathe or do fucking _anything_ , it gives Sammy a perfect excuse to wear practically no clothing, loll around sucking on popsicles, and generally be the reason Dean is walking around in 100 degree weather with a perma-boner.

He fucking _knows_ it too, the little bitch. Dean can practically see the gears turning beneath that too-long mop of brown hair. Sam knows exactly what he’s doing and exactly what it’s doing to Dean, and he’s just waiting for Dean to crack.

Right now, he’s sitting on the crumbling front step in nothing but a pair of Dean’s old swim trunks, still a bit too big on him so they ride low on his skinny hips. He’s got a green glass bottle of Coke - God knows where he found an actual glass bottle - that’s sweating condensation in the mid-morning sun, and his eye on Dean, who is mowing the lawn.

There was only a shitty, rusty old push mower in the decaying garage and Dean wouldn’t have bothered with the fucking lawn at all if the all the weeds and whatever other bullshit didn’t draw flies and other stupid bugs like blood drew vamps. After three days of flying creatures absolutely fucking everywhere, Dean had given up and dragged the lawn mower out, making quick work of the front lawn jungle.

That had been a week ago and the fucking weeds were already back with a vengeance. Dean hauled the mower out again, wondering how _anything_ could grow so fast in this fucking heat, and was about halfway through the job when Sam had ambled out the front door, green bottle in hand, and settled onto the concrete to make Dean’s life even more of a living hell.

He’s sprawled over the step, legs splayed wide, leaning back on one hand, the other curled suggestively around the neck of the bottle. As Dean watches, transfixed, Sam lifts the bottle to his lips, the dark liquid sloshing forward. He tongues the opening of the bottle before wrapping his mouth around it, and his slim throat works as he swallows the soda down. He lowers the bottle and licks the stickiness from his lips.

Dean feels sweat dripping down his back. He shakes his head like a dog, shoves the mower forward through a particularly thick tangle of plant tendrils, and tries to ignore his hard-on. He manages two passes of the lawn before his eyes flick back to his baby brother.

Bad idea. It’s like Sam knew he was gonna look up. The kid has his head craned to one side, pressing the cool, dripping bottle against his sweaty skin. He moans like a fucking porn star and Dean’s head spins. He watches a droplet slide down the curve of Sam’s neck and his hands tighten on the handle of the mower.

Sam looks right at him, their eyes locking. One side of Sam’s mouth lifts in a smirk, popping the dimple in his cheek, and he raises the bottle again. He doesn’t go to drink - instead, he slides the flat of his tongue along the neck of the bottle, eyes falling shut as he licks up the smooth plane of the glass. When he reaches the opening, the tip of his tongue swirls suggestively in circles, dipping in and out of the mouth. He opens his eyes and tilts the bottle the rest of the way, chugging down the remainder of the soda.

Dean drops the handle of the mower and crosses the lawn in half a dozen quick strides. He gets to Sam before he can lick his lips and Dean grabs him hard by his bare shoulders and licks them for him instead.

Sam cranes up into the kiss, mouth sticky and sweet and hot. He’s a fucking tease and a good one, but Dean knows from experience that once he gets his hands on his little brother, Sam falls all to pieces in seconds. He nips Sam’s lower lip and swallows the whimper, sweet like soda.

The soda bottle falls to the ground and shatters. Dean will forget about the shards until later in the day when he comes out on the step without shoes and steps on a jagged piece, giving himself a beautiful gash in the bottom of his foot. He limps like a bitch for the next week and a half, but the pain makes him grin when he remembers the way the bottle tumbled from Sam’s slack hand.

For years, whenever Dean sees a glass soda bottle, he gets both a phantom pain in the bottom of his foot and an instant boner.


	9. Autumn Closing In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Sam ever bothered to think about it, it might concern him how little effort it took for Dean to brighten his entire day with just a lame joke and a sunny smile. But it’d been that way for so long that he’d never noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been sitting completed in my Google Drive for months now - it's supposed to have a sequel, but we'll see how that works out. 
> 
> This is Wincest in its infancy - nothing concrete, just faint beginnings. Sam is 14, Dean is 18. 
> 
> Chapter title and lyrics from "Night Moves" by Bob Seger.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply.

Autumn Closing In 

 

_“One of the greatest rock writers of all time, Samuel.” - Dean, S11E04 “Baby”_

  


Sam trudged up the gravel driveway of the tiny rental Dad had signed a month-to-month lease on. The Impala was facing the house, hood up, a pair of boots moving back and forth behind it. “Hey Dad,” Sam said wearily, pulling up beside the car. Dean’s head popped out from under the bonnet. “You know something I don’t, Sammy?” He had a streak of grease along one modelesque cheekbone as he grinned at Sam.

If Sam ever bothered to think about it, it might concern him how little effort it took for Dean to brighten his entire day with just a lame joke and a sunny smile. But it’d been that way for so long that he’d never noticed. He broke into an answering grin. “Yeah, that you’re an idiot.”

Dean snagged the oily rag laying on the engine, twisted it up into a tight coil, and flicked the end at Sam’s arm. Sam dodged away, half-spinning and kicking a crumpled soda can that Dean had obviously left on the ground toward his brother. It bounced neatly off Dean’s left knee. “Ah, there’s the soccer star,” Dean said, sarcastic, but with a hint of pride underneath. He’d been to all three of Sam’s games so far. Dad hadn’t managed to make it to any.

Speaking of which…“Where’s Dad?”

Dean was back under the hood. “Sleeping, so keep it down or he’ll kick your ass and I’ll point and laugh.”

“But I’m hungry.”

“Mac and cheese on the stove. Save me some.”

“No promises.” Sam dodged the whiplike flick of the rag again and headed up the crumbling steps into the house. He dropped his backpack in the room he shared with Dean and headed back to the kitchen, where he scarfed down half the macaroni straight from the pot. He was always hungry lately. Dad grumbled about grocery bills, but Dean’s own memories of his perpetually hungry teenage years were not that far behind him, and he always went out of his way to make sure there was food on hand for Sam.

Sam dumped the rest of the noodles into a chipped bowl and stole one of Dad’s beers from the fridge, tucking a soda under his arm for himself. He maneuvered the door carefully, heading back down the front steps.

Dean had finished whatever magic he’d been doing under the Impala’s hood and was now leaning against it. Sam could hear “Night Moves” coming from the car’s speakers. The sun was going down, and Dean was silhouetted dark against a backdrop of blazing gold that turned his dark blonde hair to spun fire.

Sam nearly dropped everything. A double pang of deep love and desperate need shot through him like a bolt of lightning. Even as his heart began to race, his feet propelled him across the gravel toward the car and that unearthly being of light and flame, lounging like a jungle cat against her shining body.

Then the sun dipped lower beneath the trees that lined the street, and the magic was gone and it was just Dean looking at him, one eyebrow quirked questioningly at the rapt look on Sam’s face. He reached out a hand for the beer, and Sam shook himself a little before handing it over. Dean lifted the bottle to his plush lips, wrapping them around the cool glass. Sam looked elsewhere - anywhere - before Dean could notice him staring again.

He came to rest beside Dean on the car, climbing up to sit on the hood. Dean shot him a half-hearted glare as his sneaker left a dusty imprint on the gleaming bumper, but settled for just snagging the bowl of mac and cheese. He drummed his fingers against the ceramic in time with the music.

Sam cracked open his soda. Dean raised his beer and clinked it dully against the can. They sat in companionable silence, Dean’s fingers still drumming along to the rhythm. The music changed, slow and dreamy and with something that Sam couldn’t put his finger on, but made his throat tighten.

_“Ain't it funny how the night moves/When you just don't seem to have as much to lose…”_

Sam shivered suddenly. He scooted across the car to lean against Dean’s shoulder. Dean set his bowl down on the hood - sacrilege - and let his head rest against Sam’s. “What’s up with you?” he asked gently. “Nothin’,” Sam sighed, unable to articulate what he was feeling. Dean snorted softly, disbelievingly, but didn’t press the matter.

“Dad thinks there might be a vamp stirring up trouble, couple states over.”

Dean’s voice was low, tentative. Sam’s snort was a reprise of his brother’s. “So much for soccer,” he said sourly.

Dean rubbed his head against Sam’s soothingly, always seeking to take the edge off Sam’s pain any way he could. “We’ll see,” he murmured. “Maybe I can convince him to get Bobby on it.”

Sam knew well enough what would happen. But he loved Dean for always trying.

Dean lifted his head and nudged Sam with his shoulder. “Don’t you have homework?” he asked, pushing off the car. He picked up the bowl and buffed the surface of the hood with the hem of his t-shirt.

Sam felt emptied out at the loss of contact. “Not much.”

“Well then it won’t take much time. Get your ass inside. One of us has to be the smart one, and I’ve already got the monopoly on good-looking anyways.”

Sam made a face in reply. Dean hip-checked him as Sam passed, headed into the house. He could hear Dean turn the radio off and follow behind him, singing softly. “ _Workin’ on the night moves…_ ”

Sam stepped in the door and flipped the outside light on, illuminating Dean in the yellow glow. He was all fire and light again, but this time his face was the focus.

It always was, to Sam.


	10. Bareback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sam gets back to the Bunker, he's in for a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for this, beyond wanting something light and fun - all my Wincest is so serious.
> 
> Just imagine Dean at the end of "Regarding Dean" and you'll have the perfect mental image. And read it with the song playing, if you want the full picture.
> 
> Quoted lyrics from "Pony" by Ginuwine.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply.

Bareback 

 

Sam opens the Bunker’s door carefully, trying not to drop his armful of groceries. He makes his way inside and down the stairs, headed for the kitchen.

 “Dean?” he calls out, passing through the library. Sam’ll be damned if he’s gonna get the groceries _and_ put them all away, especially since eighty percent of the stuff on the list was Dean’s request to start with. Dean, the blossoming chef. Sam fondly recalls the endless nights of mac and cheese or pasta with marinara - essentially the same dish, just different sauces - that once made up the litany of Dean’s culinary exploits. Now, Sam’s picking up stuff like lemongrass and shallots, trying to decide if there’s _really_ a difference between chicken breasts and chicken thighs. Apparently, as evidenced by Dean’s hissy fit, there is a marked difference. Trust Dean to insist on distinctions when it comes to breasts and thighs…

 “Dean!” His first call hasn’t delivered Dean to the kitchen, where Sam gratefully sets down the bags. He goes over his purchases mentally, but there’s nothing requiring immediate refrigeration, so he leaves everything where he dumped it and sets off down the hall in search of his brother. “Dean, what the hell? Come put the damn groceries away!”

 The door to Dean’s room is closed when he reaches it. Sam knocks sharply for argument’s sake, then reaches for the doorknob. Closed doors have never meant much to the Winchesters. But before he can turn the knob, he hears noises from inside: shuffling, the clatter of something falling onto the floor, and Dean’s harried voice. “Hold on a minute!”

 “Dude, if you’re whacking it, A) it’s nothing I’ve never seen, and B) you’re a bitch for starting without me,” Sam yells through the door. He jiggles the knob just to hear the panic in Dean’s voice spike. “Sam! I said hold on, Jesus!”

 Now Sam’s curiosity is piqued. “What are you _doing_ in there?”

 “Calm your balls for a second!” The shout comes back, exasperated. Sam makes a face at the door.

 The next sound he hears is music. Not classic rock, or anything else he would expect to hear on Dean’s stereo. Instead, it’s an R&B beat, something with a heavy, slow rhythm, something that tickles the edges of his memories. He’s heard it before, but he can’t put his finger on it. Until the vocals come in.

  _I’m just a bachelor_  
_I’m lookin’ for a partner_  
_Someone who knows how to ride_  
_Without even falling off_

“Oh my _God_ ,” Sam breathes and flings the door open, just as Dean calls out. “Okay, you can come in!”

 Dean’s kneeling on his memory foam, naked save for a pair of black boxer briefs and the hat he’d kept from their visit back to 1861, perched jauntily on his head. His hips are thrust forward invitingly and when he sees Sam rush the room, he starts to roll his body in time with the music. “Oh, hey Sammy.”

 Sam can’t speak, although the words hovering on the tip of his tongue are “What the _fuck_?” The song plays on in the background, filtering through the white noise rushing in Sam’s ears.

  _If you’re horny, let’s do it  
__Ride it, my pony_

 Dean arches an eyebrow expectantly. “What’s up?” he asks conversationally, as though he’s not pulling a full-on Magic Mike. “Did you get the salmon?”

 Sam covers his face. “Dude, I cannot discuss groceries when you’re doing - that.” He drops one hand to gesture at Dean’s writhing form.

 Dean sings the next lines. “My saddle’s waiting, come and jump on it.”

 “Oh my GOD,” Sam says again, dropping his hands to stare at his older brother. Bad idea. Despite the absurdity of the situation, it’s pretty fucking hot. Dean’s always had good rhythm and the rolls of his body are perfectly timed and well-executed, starting at his head and flowing down to his hips. Sam’s starting to sweat.

 A lesser man than Dean Winchester would have faltered by now, shaken by the lack of reaction. Dean Winchester is only spurred on. He puts one hand on the hat and the other he tucks lightly in the waistband of his underwear. It should be ridiculous. It’s pointedly not. “C’mon, Sammy. I’ll take you for a ride.”

 “What the fuck,” Sam says helplessly. He strips off his shirts and drops them on the floor. Dean grins at him, the motion of his body never halting as Sam trips his way out of the rest of his clothes and stalks toward the bed, dick red and hard against his stomach. He knees onto the mattress, sinking into the foam, and reaches out to snatch the hat off Dean’s head. “Hey,” Dean protests, but his complaints cut off when Sam gets his hands around Dean’s waist.

 “If I’m riding the pony, I need the hat,” Sam says reasonably, putting it on and grinding his cock against Dean’s boxers briefs. Dean’s laugh cuts off into a moan as Sam leans in to bite at a nipple, the brim of the hat rubbing against his chest. “Where did this come from?”

 Dean has the good grace to flush. “Magic Mike was on TV, I couldn’t help it.”

 Sam snickers, letting his body sync with Dean’s, still grinding to the beat. “Well, ride ‘em cowboy.”

 


End file.
